Gossamer Dreams
by KrissyKat91
Summary: Tinker Bell is the first pixie Wendy Darling ever met, but not the first faerie. (a writing in present tense experiment)
1. Year Four

Ch. 1: Year Four

Wendy Darling is four the first time she sees him.

She is playing in her family's tiny backyard while Mummy feeds John, her one-year-old brother. It's getting dark, and she knows she will soon be called in for the night, but she wants to catch some fireflies first.

As she eagerly searches the bushes, a flash of color catches her attention. Turning, she sees a tall man who looks a little younger than Daddy, dressed in black and blue, with long black hair, almost white skin, and purple-blue eyes.

He is sitting on the lowest branch of the tree that is growing over the back fence, and seems to be staring at the air in front of him. Wendy thinks that's silly. How can you look at air?

Wendy has been told not to talk to strangers, but no one has ever actually explained what a stranger is, so she can be forgiven for walking over to the tree and asking, "Who are you?"

The man jolts, then stares at her, eyes wide.

"What's your name?" she asks when the man doesn't answer.

"...Ciar," he finally replies, and his voice is a chill wind on a moonless night. Wendy thinks it's pretty. "You... you see me?"

Wendy wrinkles her nose. "Of course I see you! You're right there!"

"But," he says slowly, "you should not be able to see me."

He slides out of the tree, and now Wendy can see the pointed ears, the slender, curling horns poking out of dark hair, and, most amazing of all, the gossamer wings, more like a dragonfly's than a butterfly's, colored deepest blue and darkest black.

"You're a faerie!" she breathes, awe shining in her eyes.

The faerie-man's mouth twitches slightly upwards.

"Yes," is the simple response. Then, "Who are you?"

The little girl draws herself to her full three feet, two inches. "I am Wendy Moira Angela Darling," she recites dutifully, proud that she finally has it memorized. "I don't like my name. It's too long." Really, couldn't Mummy and Daddy have just named her Wendy?

The faerie-man makes a short, dry sound that might be a laugh if it came from anyone else, a strange glint in purple-blue eyes.

"It is, is it? Well then, Wendy Moira Angela Darling, would you like me to give you a new name?"

Her eyes widen. "A new name? Like what?"

"Like..." He studies her for a moment, then his mouth twitches again. "Like Sorcha. It means brightness."

"Sorcha," Wendy repeats. It's short and simple, just as she likes, so she smiles. "I like it."

The faerie-man nods. "Well, little Sorcha, I shall see you again."

And just like that, he is gone.


	2. Year Eight

Ch. 2: Year Eight

Wendy Darling is eight the next time she sees him.

She is alone in the nursery, crying because Aunt Beatrice is visiting, and Wendy can still hear the criticism, the constant "That is not the behavior of a proper lady, Wendy Moira!"

If Aunt Beatrice is the best example, then Wendy doesn't want to be a "proper lady"!

"What is wrong, little Sorcha?"

That voice, like a dagger wrapped in velvet, has been seared into her brain since she was four, and though it's been years since their first meeting, she recognizes it immediately.

"Ciar!"

She feels him stiffen as her arms wrap around his waist, as if he is wholly unused to physical contact, but just as she is about to pull away and apologize, he relaxes and hugs her back.

"Why do you cry, little one?" he whispers.

Wendy is too ashamed to look him in the eyes, so she buries her face in his dark coat and tells the silver buttons about Aunt Beatrice, about the criticism and contempt, and about how, sometimes, when Mummy and Daddy are out, Aunt Beatrice hits her.

The temperature in the nursery drops abruptly, the shadows deepen, and somehow Wendy knows that Ciar is very, very angry.

"Do not worry, my light," he purrs, the velvet in his voice gone. "She will never harm you again."

Aunt Beatrice complains of increasingly horrific nightmares for the next three days. On the forth day, Daddy summons the constabulary, because Aunt Beatrice is behaving like a madwoman, huddled in the corner of the sitting room and screaming that monsters, commanded by a man with glowing eyes, are trying to kill her.

They take her away in a straight-waistcoat, and Wendy wonders if Ciar does this to everyone he doesn't like.


	3. Year Ten

Ch. 3: Year Ten

Wendy Darling is ten when she sees him again.

She has just finished telling her brothers, seven-year-old John and five-year-old Michael, a bedtime story involving dragons, knights, and wizards. The two boys are already fast asleep, their dreams no doubt placing themselves in the roles of their favorite characters in this latest tale from their beloved big sister.

Wendy is about to climb into bed herself when she realizes the three of them are no longer alone.

"Sorcha."

It's only one word, yet Wendy can tell something's wrong.

"Ciar?" she asks, turning to where he is standing in the corner, half concealed in shadows, all ebonies and ivories and indigos. "What is it?"

"Where did you go last night? I came to see you, but you were gone. There was _pixie_ magic in the room." A faint note of disgust enters his voice at the word "pixie".

Wendy blinks. "Peter Pan took us to Neverland, but we missed Mother and Father, so we came back."

Ciar, tense at the mention of the boy who never grew up, relaxes a little.

"I... am glad you did not stay, little one. We would never have seen each other again."

"What?!" she whisper-shouts. "Why?!"

"I..." He doesn't meet her gaze. "My kind is... banned from places where those of the light congregate."

Wendy has spent two years studying all the faerie lore she can get her hands on, and now a theory is proven. "You're Unsidhe, aren't you?"

He flinches, but nods, still refusing to look her in the eye.

Undaunted, Wendy walks forward and wraps her arms around him. After a moment, he does the same.

"Why can't anyone else see you?" she asks.

"They do not believe. Not the way you do. Not even your brothers, who have seen _pixies,"_ again the faint disgust, "would be able to see me. Unlike Sidhe, my people do not perish without belief. We are simply invisible, untouchable, and unheard."

They are both silent for several moments. Finally, he pulls away.

"I should go," he says. "I am... not supposed to be here."

"Why not?"

Ciar grins faintly. "It is a long, convoluted story involving a war between they of the light and we of the dark. Suffice it to say, they won, we lost, and now my people are, among other things, forbidden from making contact with mortals." Dusk colored eyes soften. "You, little Sorcha, are the first human I have spoken with in over four centuries."

"Oh. You aren't going to get in trouble for visiting me, are you?"

He winces. "If I am caught, I will be punished, yes. I shall simply refrain from being caught."

Wendy bites her lip. "Maybe you shouldn't—"

She is cut off by a pale finger against her lips.

"I do not require belief, little one," he says softly, gaze distant, "but to have it again, after so long... Do not ask me to stay away, my light. Please, do not ask that."

"...Alright. Just be careful."

"I will."


	4. Year Sixteen

Ch. 4: Year Sixteen

Wendy Darling is sixteen the last time she sees him.

He has visited her as often as he can after her trip to Neverland, taking her out and showing her more wonders than she knew existed.

She knows he's trying to keep her interested in her own world, so that if Peter Pan comes back, she won't be tempted to go with him. She doesn't mind; she enjoys spending time with the man she's come to love, though she knows she'll never tell him.

She is waiting patiently on a bench in the small park where she usually meets him, when the bushes off to the side start to rustle.

"Hello?" she calls, and for a moment nothing happens. Then, suddenly, a black blur comes hurdling out of the underbrush. Wendy's frightened shriek is almost immediately silenced by a hand over her mouth, and a familiar voice whispering in her ear, "Be silent or they will find us!"

"Ciar?" she asks when he pulls his hand away. "What's going on?"

"I slipped, my light. I slipped badly. They know who you are, where we meet. I barely escaped."

"'They'? 'They' who?"

"The Sidhe," Ciar hisses, pulling her along with him as he moves through the trees.

It is then that Wendy notices the silvery-blue liquid flowing from a gash in his upper arm.

"Ciar! You're hurt!"

He barely glances at the wound. "I am fine. We must not stop."

"But—"

Wendy's words are cut off as a bright light suddenly shines through the trees. Ciar hisses a harsh word in a language she's never heard before, and the next thing Wendy knows, she is in his arms and airborne.

Whimpering in fear, Wendy buries her face into Ciar's shoulder as balls of light whip around them, detonating at random intervals. Ciar performs corkscrews, barrel rolls, and other aerial maneuvers she doesn't know the names of, desperately trying to keep ahead of the attacks, to keep away from the Sidhe after their heads.

There is a brief lull, and the Unsidhe takes the opportunity to dive for a relatively hidden spot near the park entrance. Landing hard, he places Wendy on her feet and says, "Run, Sorcha! Run straight home, and no matter what happens–no matter what you see or hear–do not stop until you get there!"

"But–!"

"No! I'll not have you suffer for my foolishness! It is me they search for." He extends a hand, a darkly glowing sword appearing in it. "So it is me they will find. I lo–you are too important to me to risk you safety."

Wendy opens and closes her mouth, trying to find something to say. Then she lunges forward, wrapping her arms around him and pressing a fierce kiss–her first kiss–to his lips. He kisses her back just as fiercely, then pulls back.

For one brief eternity, everything that might have been is laid out before them. The Ciar turns away.

"Go."

Choking back a sob, Wendy turns and runs. She doesn't look back when the explosions start up again. She doesn't look back when she hears the sounds of steel clashing with steel. And she doesn't look back when she hears Ciar scream.

She just runs, tears streaming.


	5. Year Eighty-one

KrissyKat91: There. It's finished. Make of the ending what you will.

* * *

Ch. 5: Year Eighty-one

Wendy Pritchard née Darling is eighty-one, and she is dying.

She has outlived both her brothers by a wide margin—Michael having died in the war, John from some nameless wasting disease, neither having married—as well as the son she bore for the man her father had chosen as her husband, whom she has also outlived. She can't help but wonder if Ciar had done something to extend her lifespan all those years ago.

Ciar. It has been sixty-five years since that night, yet Wendy can still remember it as if it had been yesterday.

She had stayed awake for hours, alternately hoping for Ciar to come through the window and terrified the Sidhe would, but she'd never caught a glimpse of a faerie ever again.

After a year of waiting, she had slowly begun to consider the idea that he was dead. She mourned the thought for another year before her father, fed up with his daughter's strange behavior, arranged a marriage to a clean-cut man of decent social standing.

She had liked Edward well enough, but had never loved him, and had only been able to bring herself to give him two children. She had never quite been able to give up that tiny, frail hope that Ciar would return one day. But now she is dying, of something the doctors can't identify, and she doesn't know if she can keep that hope alive any longer.

Her daughter, Jane Weston née Pritchard—who moved back into her mother's house to care for her—has just left her bedroom in order to prepare dinner for the two of them, leaving Wendy alone. The curtains have been drawn away from the window at the elderly woman's request, revealing an abnormally clear sky for a winter night in London.

Shifting slightly, Wendy closes her eyes, intending to catch a few moments of sleep before Jane comes back. It seems to only be seconds after that a quiet creak echoes through the room, a cold wind coming along with it.

"Hello, Sorcha."

Eyes snapping open, Wendy pushes herself up as much as she can and stares.

Ciar stands at the foot of her bed, looking exactly the same as he had sixty-five years ago, save for a few new scars on his face and a thin circlet of ebon metal on his brow.

"Ciar," Wendy breathes, slumping back against her pillows. "You're alive!"

"Yes," he says, stepping closer. "Though only by a somewhat bizarre twist of fate. There was a hobgoblin living in the park. It took offense at the Sidhe's presence. I escaped whilst they were attempting to fend it off." Wendy's confusion must show on her face, for Ciar smirks a little. "Hobgoblins are immune to all but the most powerful of Magicks. The Sidhe chasing us were… decidedly less than that."

"But-but why didn't you come back?"

"I could not. The Sidhe's actions against myself that night triggered yet another war, which ended in the favor of we of the dark. The Sidhe have always been more numerous than the Unsidhe, but the decline of belief is slowly whittling away at their numbers, which put us on more even ground."

"I don't understand. Why would attacking you cause a war?'

Ciar suddenly looks highly uncomfortable. "I, ah, well, I may have neglected to mention in our time together that I was the Crown Prince of the Unsidhe."

Wendy knows she's staring, but she can't help it. "The… Crown… Prince? Wait. What do you mean 'was'?"

A storm of emotions crosses the dark faerie's face, grief and loss and fury. "My father was one of the casualties of the war. I am the King, now."

"…I lost my baby brother to the world war," Wendy offers quietly.

Ciar closes his eyes. "I fear our own war may have, if not caused the mortal one, then at least exacerbated it. For that, I am truly sorry."

"…Why are you back? Not that I'm not glad to see you! But, well… why now?"

"Every king needs a queen. I was hoping you would be mine."

Wendy gapes. "You-you want to marry me?! Ciar, have you taken leave of your senses?! Look at me! I'm old! I have great-grandchildren, for pity's sake! And I'm—" Her voice cracks. "I'm dying. The doctors say I only have a few weeks left, if that."

He smiles almost awkwardly. "You are not dying, Sorcha."

"What?"

"You are not dying. You are Changing." His smile dims. "After you returned from Neverland, I… well, I was selfish. I was afraid Peter Pan would some day whisk you away again, so I planted a… a Seed of Magick, for lack of a better term. With regular infusions of Magick, the Seed would have transformed you into what we call a Changeling by your twenty-first year. At that point you would have had a choice: to remain mortal, in which case the Seed would have died off and done nothing other than make you mildly ill for a few weeks, or to complete the Change and become an Unsidhe. Unfortunately I could not make those infusions, and so the Seed was left to germinate over a normal human lifespan."

Wendy's eye twitches. "And were you planning on telling me about that? I don't care for having things done to me without my consent, Ciar."

"Of course I was going to tell you! I simply never had the chance."

For a long moment the room is silent, then the mortal looks at the faerie.

"Do you love me?" she whispers.

"More than anything."

Wendy smiles, feeling something release inside her. "Then yes, Ciar, I'll go with you. I'll be your queen."

The moment the last word leaves her mouth, Wendy feels an incredible, indescribable burst of pure power erupt from somewhere inside her. Colors she's never seen flash through her vision, and sounds she's never heard ring in her ears. Lightning races through every nerve in her body, yet there is no pain.

When it's over she finds herself standing in front of a wildly grinning Ciar, feeling more alive than she ever has before.

"Oh, Sorcha," he breathes, "you are beautiful."

She looks over at the looking glass on the opposite side of the room and gasps.

The woman in the glass is not the elderly woman who had been laying in the bed. Nor is she the young woman who had almost pined away for a faerie. This woman is tall and stately, with a perfect figure, elegantly shaped features, silvery-blue eyes, and long wavy hair in that nameless shade that's too dark to be brown but not dark enough to be black. She is clad in a gown of dark purple and pale grey, with amethyst slippers poking out from under the gown's skirts. And, perhaps most importantly, a pair of butterfly wings in amethyst and silver adorn her back.

"Oh," she says, "that-that can't be me!"

"But it is you, Sorcha," Ciar replies, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms around her shoulders. "You are Unsidhe now. Come, we must be going. The Faerie Realms need to meet their new Queen."

"Alright," Wendy—no, Sorcha. She's Sorcha now—casts one last look at the bedroom door, beyond which is her daughter, before nodding. "I'm ready now."

* * *

 _The doctors will say the elderly lady had passed painlessly in her sleep. The funeral will be a small, private affair for family only, and Jane Weston will be given many condolences for the loss of her mother. Many hours later, while working to put the house in order, Jane will pause and study a small jar on the kitchen table—a jar full of sparkling silver and indigo dust—which she recognizes as faerie dust even though she's never seen those colors before. She will stare at that jar, recalling how she found the dust on the floor around her mother's bed and upon the sill of a window she is sure she didn't open. She will stare at that jar, and she will wonder._


End file.
